Keep Breathing
by Quaxo
Summary: After the events of FRAME, Bobby seeks some distraction with his lover, but winds up finding something more. SLASH.


AN: I don't own Criminal Intent, or it's characters. I'm just playing in their universe... and slashing it up. Rawr.

* * *

He sighs quietly, sitting up and staring at the vaguely familiar ceiling, wishing he could be sleeping like the body next to him. Like many nights these past few years he's just too tired to sleep… although that's at an end now, since--

He shivers and focuses on peacefully dozing figure beside him; the close cropped auburn curls, the freckles splashed across the shoulders, the firm, athletic ass--

"I charge five bucks a minute to stare," Roger grumbles, rolling onto his back and stretching lazily.

"Sorry."

"So, what's bothering you?"

The words are thrown out casually, like Roger's expecting him to complain about work or his boss, like his whole world hasn't—

FuckfuckFUCK he can't breathe anymore, where did the air go? His heart feels like it's trying to make a hole in his chest -- is he having a heart attack? It would figure, the perfect ending to this day-- All Declan's hard work for nothing--

"Breathe, Bobby… it's just a panic attack. Breathe," Roger says in a soothing voice, straddling his hips so that they're face to face. "Look at me, Bobby, and _breathe_…" Concerned blue-gray eyes lock with his, and he finds the oxygen slowly returning to his lungs.

"Bet you're glad you're fucking a doctor now, aren't you," Roger asks as he rolls off his lap and walks into the bathroom, returning shortly with a cool glass of water that Bobby gratefully accepts. "So… you going to tell me what the fuck that was about, or do we play twenty questions?"

"M-my brother… he died."

"The drugs?"

"No… no, Nicole and--" His chest is tightening up again and he doesn't want to talk about this, not now, not ever, not with Roger.

This isn't why he and Roger are together, not why this casual sort of relationship started in the first place. This is just supposed to be sex, dammit, exploration, a way of exorcising physical urges, a distraction--

"Breathe, Bobby, breathe…" Roger's whispers in his ear, strong fingers coming up to stroke his hair. "Keep breathing, just keep breathing... "

He tries to focus on Roger's words, on taking deep, calm breaths, but nothing seems to work--

"You've seen my ex-wife stalking the halls, right? The Botox-ed she-demon?" He manages a nod, wondering where precisely Roger's going with sudden conversation. "We met in med school, well I was in med school, she was still trying to 'discover' herself by sleeping with as many guys as possible. That's another story. Anyway, I made the colossal mistake of marrying her right after graduation. Even worse I was doing the whole "newlywed" thing at the same time I was an intern. We hardly spent time together and… it wasn't really fair to her in the end…" Roger sighs. "Anyway, long story short, this continues for a few years and I come home from my shift early one night to find her fucking a co-worker of mine in our bed. Now, they're making so much noise that they don't realize that I'm there. So I open the bedroom door and catch them in the act, literally, and all I can think is, '_Damn_, James has a fine ass'," Roger's sour laugh tickles his ear, betraying the very real hurt hidden by the light tone he's been telling this awful story in. "All my life I'd wanted that perfect family that I'd never had: the wife, the kids, the dog, the picket fence, and as I'm watching the two of them fuck each other I realize that I'm never going to have that. Not because my wife has severe issues with honoring her vows, but because I was never all that interested in women anyways… Now, are you breathing better?"

He's surprised to realize that his breathing has normalized… Roger's just using basic psychology, ending the panic attack by getting him to focus on something else. In this case, the story of how Roger realized that he was homosexual…

Bobby's own story of self-realization is much less dramatic; he'd always had an -- appreciation -- of both sexes, even if he only acted on his heterosexual impulses. The Army certainly wasn't the place to explore one's sexuality, and back stateside… well, NYPD _officially_ didn't care who you slept with (as long as they consented and were old enough), but unofficially there was a lot of disapproval for anything outside of the 'norm'. He'd already been so 'quirky' he hadn't wanted to add any more to his already odd reputation.

There was his mother's shadow too, even if she was at Carmel Ridge and completely unaware of what he was doing… he could feel her disapproving glare any time his gaze lingered a little too long in the wrong direction. She wanted grandchildren and perhaps she wouldn't have cared if his personal tastes strayed away from procreation, but he wasn't going to risk being wrong. So he hadn't pursued the other half of his sexuality for thirty years…

Until one night after a difficult visit with his mother the day before and a hellish day at work where Ross jumped down his throat for a minor mistake on his paperwork, and Eames kept sending him looks that varied between pitying and exasperated… well, after his shift had ended he'd gone straight to his neighborhood bar intent on finding a little distraction in the bottom of his glass.

Sexual gratification hadn't been on the menu, he hadn't wanted to deal with the effort of finding an interested party, the 'will she/won't she?' anxiety that went with seduction, and the awkward morning after.

Then Roger, the man who had moved in next door to him only a few months earlier, had sat down beside him and made a remark about Bobby's good taste in scotch, before ordering a round for the both of them. There'd been subtle, appreciative glances over the rims of their drinks, hands that touched a little more and a little longer than they should.

Roger had offered to walk with him back to the apartment, the slight quirk of his eyebrow promising more than just a walk if Bobby wanted. He'd been so tired of trying to meet everyone's expectations and failing them miserably, the impulse to do something rebellious and selfish had been strong.

It had been wonderful. Roger had been a bit surprised to find out that he'd wound up with a forty-six year old virgin (to these acts anyway), but had been understanding and patient. Which had surprised Bobby a bit, because the other man had definitely been looking for just sex and he got the feeling that Roger wasn't very patient about _anything_…

So they'd made a habit. Men like them with busy schedules and pagers likely to go off at any second didn't have a lot of time to devote to relationships; finding someone who completely understood why plans had to change at the last minute was rare…

"Well, fuck," Roger announces, startling him out of his thoughts --

He realizes with a shiver that all this time he's been thinking he's also been telling Roger precisely what's 'bothering' him: Nicole, Frank, Declan, his mother and Mark Ford Brady… All this internal chaos had bubbled over, and spilled from his lips with all the control of a broken levy.

Roger leans over his body, warm skin brushing against his chest, to reach into the nightstand. He digs around for several moments before pulling out a slightly crushed pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Roger shakes one out, catching the filter with his thin lips, before offering him one.

"You smoke," Is all he can think to say, slightly surprised that Roger hasn't gone running for the hills after all the baggage he's dumped. Eames staying was one thing, she knew him, they'd worked together closely for years -- Roger, though, hardly knows him….

"Stress or liquor are going to kill me first, so why not," Roger smirks, waving the cigarette in front of his face. "I've seen you sneaking a few too…"

He's been trying to quit (again), but after a day like today even the scent of old tobacco is alluring and he takes the cigarette.

"Atta boy," Roger grins, lighting his own cigarette before using the burning embers from the tip to light Bobby's.

He chokes a little as the stale tobacco smoke hits the back of his throat; he's been clean the last month a half and his lung protest violently against the fumes. He clenches his fingers down the cigarette though and takes another puff, which goes down much easier.

They sit together in companionable silence, Roger blowing smoke rings, and it's almost like he's used to hearing crazy stories like his all the time. Of course he does work at one of the free clinics, so perhaps he has.

"Your mentor was right--" He coughs at Roger's sudden pronouncement, looking over at the man, who's staring up at the ceiling thoughtfully. "I mean, he went about it in completely the wrong way but that's likely because of the deterioration of his frontal lobes," Roger's wrist makes a back and forth gesture, smoke from his cigarette artfully trailing behind. "He still has a point, though."

Roger shifts so he's leaning on his side, his eyes uncommonly serious.

"You did the best you could for all of them. Some weren't capable of appreciating you, and some were just too selfish. There was nothing that _you_ did to cause anything, and nothing that you could've done to prevent it. I mean, _fuck_, I thought I'd won at 'crappy parents' lotto, but you fucking take the cake…" Roger's lips are quirked in a wry smile, but there's a haunted look to his eyes and Bobby remembers the thin silvery scars splashed across Roger's body.

Perhaps that's why he finds it so much easier to confide in Roger than Eames, the common experience of misfortune; not to belittle Eames' personal tragedies, but she doesn't understand what it's like to be born into a world where nothing, not even your parents' affection, is certain. You grow up -- no, you grow _old_ so much faster… If you haven't lived it, it's hard to not to feel pity, and he doesn't need pity from Eames.

They sit quietly together, Bobby savoring the cigarette until the ashes burn the tips of his fingers, and he hurriedly stubs out the butt in the ashtray. It reminds him that he's lingered for far too long… any other night he'd have already returned to his apartment and had another scotch before trying to get some sleep.

He swings his legs off the bed, but before his feet can hit the floor fingers brush the small of his back.

"You could stay… I assume you're taking a few days off for bereavement?"

He hadn't planned on taking any time off actually, but Ross had insisted he take the rest of the week. It was probably for the best considering the scene he'd made in the morgue, and in the squad room, and in Ross' office. He had been under a hellish amount of stress, his brother's death, the return of Nicole-- still didn't excuse--

"Are you sure--"

"I've got the day off tomorrow, I was planning to go into the clinic anyway, but maybe we could find something to do…" Roger offers, eyes drifting about, fingers absently playing with the duvet cover. He's nervous, Bobby realizes, _shy_…

No wonder, this isn't something that they do, the sleeping over, the being more than superficially concerned with one another's lives….

"I--I snore."

"So do I…"

"If you're sure…"

"If it's really bad I can always crash at your place."

He snorts at that, but lays back on the bed. It's been so long since he's had someone to share a bed with, he's not even sure if he'll ever be able to sleep.

"Close your eyes and just breathe, Bobby…" Roger mumbles, resting his hand on top of Bobby's. "Just keep breathing…"

He shuts his eyes, focusing on keeping his breathing in rhythm with Roger's, and is faintly surprised as he finds himself… drifting…


End file.
